“Like pilgrim boy, I've follow'd thee,

In truth full cheerfully ;

Resolved if thou should'st come to ill,

Dear knight, to die with thee;

And much I fear'd some wily fair,

Would keep thee from my sight,

And by her bright charms, lure from my arms

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Then look'd he around, and grimly frown'd
All woe begone with wroth.

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"Foul fall the hour this red-cross knight

Did come to visit me.

"For now no more will my daughter fair

Rejoice my guests and me,

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Oh! this will be our burial place

That was our castle hall!

No more to our silver lutes' sweet sound

Shall we dance with revelry,

Nor the mass be sung, nor the bells be rung, 295

Nor the feast be ate merrily."

Old Ballad.

97

THE ANGELS' WHISPER.

A BABY was sleeping, its mother was weeping,

For her husband was far on the wild raging sea; And the tempest was swelling, round the fisherman's dwelling,

And she cried, "Dermot darling, oh! come back to me."

Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slum

bered,

5

And smiled in her face, while she bended her

knee.

Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning,

For I know that the angels are whispering with

thee.

"And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping,

Oh! pray to them softly, my baby, with me; 10 And say thou wouldst rather they'd watched o'er thy father,

For I know that the angels are whispering with thee."

The dawn of the morning saw Dermot returning, And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to

see,

And closely caressing her child, with a blessing, 15 Said, “I knew that the angels were whispering with thee."

S. LOVER.

EXTRACTS FROM "THE DESERTED

VILLAGE."

Sweet Auburn!1 loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:

1 A fanciful name. The poet describes the state of a village, known and loved by him, which has suffered from the emigration of its inhabitants.

G

The village sports.

His hopes to end his life

there.

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

ΙΟ

The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went
round :

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,

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Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks

reprove.

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These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like

these.

With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence

shed;

These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled.

In all my wand'rings round this world of care, In all my griefs—and God has given my share— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ;

To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes-for pride attends us still-
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ;

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine,
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;
Nor surly porter stands, in guilty state,
To turn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way ;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!

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Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's
close,

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below:
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 70
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering

wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;

The noises of the village.

The clergy

man.

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

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And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his
place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 90
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away,

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch and shew'd how fields were

won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to

glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty, prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

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